


Stowed Away

by obbets



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Other, Pirate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 12:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18499444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obbets/pseuds/obbets
Summary: They had spent all night and all day watching the ship and its crew, and they know that it is about to leave the port soon. As far as they are aware, the crew is not too violent, they aren’t harbouring slaves, and number very few. That last part is important: fewer people to hide from. They don’t have time to establish much more knowledge than that; they have to move. A small, lithe figure, face and hair filthy, clothes threadbare, slips onto the ship.Or: they need to get away from here, and sneaking onto a pirate ship seems like a good way to go.Just as long as they don't get caught.





	Stowed Away

They had spent all night and all day watching the ship and its crew, and they know that it is about to leave the port soon. As far as they are aware, the crew is not too violent, they aren’t harbouring slaves, and number _very few_. That last part is important: fewer people to hide from. They don’t have time to establish much more knowledge than that; they have to _move_. A small, lithe figure, face and hair filthy, clothes threadbare, slips onto the ship.

The security on the ship is lax. It’s almost too easy to sneak on unseen, especially for them. There are no regular patrols, there’s nobody watching. Whether due to an oversight, carelessness, or lack of manpower, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they manage to creep aboard undetected. They go to a corner stacked with crates, and it’s exhausting in their weakened state, but they manage to push and shove them apart, hopefully not so far that it would be noticed. They wedge the blade of the small knife that they had managed to take with them, the _only_ thing they had brought with them, in between the lid and the body of the crate to ease it open. Empty. Good. 

They curl up inside one, their bony knees and elbows pressing sharply against the sides of the small box. It’s not comfortable. It won’t last. But, for the next 12 hours or so, they can live with it. If it means they will get out of here. If it means they might be safe.

*

Days pass, of sleeping for an hour at a time at most, constantly rotating hiding spots, learning the schedules of the crew, relying on luck and their wits to keep out of sight and unheard. They manage to sneak food from time to time, little nibbles, a handful at a time, nothing that will be missed. _Don’t get caught, don’t get caught, don’t get caught._ They eat just enough that the growling of their stomach isn’t too loud. They take nothing more than that. 

Eventually, _eventually_ they realise: none of the crew ever climbs the mast. There’s a basket up there, large enough for a person to crouch inside, and nobody ever climbs it. Nobody goes up there. Ever. It’s perfect. It’s perfect. _Safe._

That night, when the moon is at its zenith, and they know that the crew are in their beds, they move. They run across the deck, a long shadow tracking their every move, lamenting the brightness of the moon and wishing for clouds that could help to conceal them. The security may be lax on this ship, but it wouldn’t do to get careless, get complacent, get reckless, don’t get _caught you can’t get caught go go go._

They have climbed things before, yes. But they have never climbed these strange knotted ropes, and normally everything isn’t swaying, and normally there’s someone watching out fo- _**no.** Don’t think. Don’t get caught. Don’t get caught. _

Hand over hand over hand over hand, thin muscles trembling with the strain of holding their body weight, they pull themself up, _forcing_ their body not to freeze at every creak of the ship or groan of the rope. They have to reach the top, and they can’t stop. Stopping gets people caught. Although their limbs are burning and their breath comes in sharp pained gasps (they muffle the noise against their shoulder), they pull themself up and up and up and up. Finally, finally, finally, they are in the nest. The wood is hard, unforgiving. It’s not comfortable. They half-slide, half-drop into the nest, grabbing its walls at the last second to save themself from clattering loudly into the wood - what if someone’s awake, what if they’re restless, what if they hear, don’t get _caught_ \- they hold their breath, and they wait. 

But no shouts come from the ship below. No cries of an intruder. No sounds at all, but for the gentle groans of the ship and the sound of the ocean’s tides. They sigh, the knobs of their spine pressing sharply against the hard wood of the nest, their clothes providing little padding from the wood, or protection from the chilled winds. They shiver, but they smile. _Safe._

*

They stay up there, in the nest, for as long as they can. The longer they can go without trips down to the deck, the better. They last, and last, letting the twist in their stomach and the hunger pangs go on until they fear that they would not be _able_ to get down the mast. That night, they wait for the moon to reach its peak (and then a bit longer, for it to duck back behind the clouds). The clouds will protect them from its light. They move. 

It is not as tough to get down as it was to rise up. Gravity is on their side, this way. And hopefully the food they take in this trip could replenish their strength enough that getting back up to their nest shouldn’t pose too much of an issue. 

They reach the bottom, and pad barefoot, their dirty soles making no noise against the wood, towards where they know the food is kept. They think quickly. How much to take? Taking less would go unnoticed. Can’t get _caught._ Taking more means fewer trips down. Can’t get caught. The sight of the food causes their stomach to gurgle hopefully, and they push at it with their hands, trying to somehow keep the noises _inside,_ where they can’t be heard. They grab for the nearest thing that could be easily eaten (some bread). They take off their shirt, twisting and wrapping it to form a basket that they can hang around their neck, and they take some food. They find one of the water barrels and guzzle at it, filling their belly with the stuff until they want to retch. They may need to find a waterskin if there’s one around, but for now, this will have to do. 

How long have they been down here? They look at the food they have taken, and roughly put one handful back... and then another. Mustn’t get greedy. Can’t get complacent. Don’t get caught. 

It’s been too long. They have to go. Their blood thrums in their ears as they run up the stairs, two at a time, back to the deck, back to the mast. They climb - it’s both harder and easier this time. They know what they’re doing now, but last time they were less weak from hunger, and this time they are weighed down. (They didn’t take much, just enough to stay a little longer, just enough to keep out of sight, just enough to stay safe in their nest, just enough.) They reach the top, eventually. They will have to practice the climb until they can do it as fast as they can scale a wall. Being slow gets you caught. 

They can’t get caught.

*

They sleep in fits and starts. In their nest, it’s safer to sleep for longer stints at a time, although never when the crew are up and about. They wake up at the earliest thud of a boot on the rungs, the swing of a door, the call of a voice. 

And once they’re awake, they watch, and they listen wherever they can. They pay attention to the relationship between the members - the one who always sings, and the one who shouts at her for her paintings. (The singer doesn’t let that stop her, however. Curious.) The one with the glasses and the one who talks about the stars and her charts. They take note of the animals that accompany the crew - the small birds, the cat that doesn’t chase them and the fluffy dog-like creature. They pay attention to the crew’s kindnesses, and their generosity. They pay close attention to how people act when angry. They listen for harsh words, shouting, kindness real and false. 

They listen, they watch, they listen, they watch. They sleep so lightly. They can’t risk anything else. Some nights, when they can’t put it off any longer, they creep down, and take some food. On nights when there is someone watching, or when a crew member has a sleepless night and stays up on the deck watching the waves, they don't sleep, they don't eat. (It’s okay. They’ve been hungry before). They hold their breath, frozen limbs shuddering against the wood of their nest. Must stay safe. Can’t get caught.

*

They grow comfortable, up there in the crow’s nest. Despite themself, they grow complacent. They have been there for weeks at this point, and it is difficult to stay in a state of high alert for that long (though they are trying). They steal a blanket (just one, an old one, a ratty one, with holes and tears and stains, one that should hopefully not be missed, because it gets cold up there in the nest and the wind, and their clothes are ragged and worn thin, and their shivering bones clack against the wood some nights). It won’t be noticed. It will be fine. 

*

The one with the glasses notices. They should have realised. He is perceptive, and he seems to keep track of the ship’s inventory. They should have _known._ He starts asking questions that nobody but the figure holding their breath in the nest high above the deck knows the answers to. And it appears he has noticed the food going missing as well. They have gotten careless. They twist their hands together so hard that they shake with the force of it. Can’t get _caught._

The one whose hair is often blue is quiet. A worrying state of affairs. That one normally has an opinion on everything. 

*

They wait until nightfall, for everyone to go to sleep. If they can put the blanket back, somewhere out of the way, somewhere silly, somewhere careless, then perhaps this will be chalked up to a misunderstanding? 

But the one with the blue hair stays awake, pacing the deck, not going to her quarters until the sun is almost rising. They will have to wait. 

Not safe any more. 

*

They wait, and they wait, and they wait. Night after night, the leader of the ship refuses to sleep until nearly dawn. Their nerves war with the hunger to gnaw at their empty stomach, and their throat is constantly dry. There is little protection from the sun available, other than the blanket that they stole; the blanket that will get them caught. 

*

“!” 

The stowaway jerks from being in an exhausted doze to awakeness with such alacrity that it disorients them. Delicate metal frames surround a pair of eyes, wide in shock, staring back at them from over the side of the wooden walls to their nest. The one with the glasses. What is he doing he- what is he _doing_ here- he’s in their nest- it’s their nest- it’s supposed to be safe- their hands scrabble for purchase, and alight on their knife. It’s the only thing they own, the only thing they have, the only thing between them and him.

They watch in horror as his hand reaches up, and before he can get any closer they lash out _no_ don’t **touch** me - but they didn’t swing correctly, and they miss his hand entirely - a vertical swipe of scarlet appearing on his cheekbone from just the tip of the knife - the wound is small but deep and the blade rasps against his glasses before it can get too dangerously close to his eye - and there’s blood and he’s _bleeding_ \- the knife drops out of their hand and clatters to the floor of their nest, and the sound echoes even through the ringing in their ears. 

The one with the glasses is shocked by the force of the blow - he’s overbalancing, teetering backwards - and they grab him, yanking him forward by the collar of his shirt with strength that surprises even them, and he’s in their nest with them. He’s in their nest and he’s bleeding.

The shock drains all colour from their face, and the blood chills to ice in their veins as they stare at him, frozen, waiting for him to move, to say something. To raise the alarm, to call over one of his crew mates to help him kill the thief. 

Numbly, they reach down, and wrap their shaking fingers around the hilt of their blade again, as if it will help to protect them. 

_Caught._

_Forgive me._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this small snippet of backstory for my OC!
> 
> If you like, you can find more of my fics on my tumblr here  
> https://the-lazaret.tumblr.com/post/184086022346/my-fic-masterpost#notes
> 
> I did edit the entire thing, and then ao3 crashed when I clicked publish. I redid the changes that I remembered, but... whoops


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